Well It Goes Like This
by Catherine5
Summary: ‘He’s falling in love with you. And as soon as he does, he’ll break your heart.’
1. i, ii, iii

_- disclaimer:_ House, nor the various titles, taken from the various versions of Hallelujah (see Jeff Buckley, Leonard Cohen, Rufus Wainwright, and many others), belong to me.   
_- a/n:_ written for fanfic100 on livejournal; this chapter includes prompts sight, touch and sound.**Well It Goes Like This**   
(parts one though three of six)

_**i. too many secret chords **_

There are things in her house he recognizes, things he wants to linger on – minutiae; only he sees they're out of place.

They look for clues, dust and grime – the literal kind too, while he slips from room to room, noticing.

There's a brand of coffee in the cupboard he knows she doesn't drink; two different bottles of toothpaste in her bathroom; a watch far too big to fit her slender wrist. The back of the watch has a name, and he all but throws it down.

One of his shirts lies crumpled on the floor of her closet, buried under immaculate lines of shoes, pressed suits and folded running gear – but he knows he didn't put it there.

He wants to take it with him. To throw it in her face – his face – and plant himself insidiously between them – because happiness is a right of passage, and if he can't have it why should they?

But more so (he admits only when it's dark in his house and quiet because the ice clinking the side of his glass has long since melted and the keys of the piano are weary) he wants to force their hand because if he doesn't do it they will, and lovers quarrels are worse than office politics.

When he meets her in the hallway he knows she knows he's done something. She waits, patiently, and he throws it out there like a left-handed compliment – watches and waits and sees if it sticks.

She's right, of course. No professional reason really (he could have asked her), certainly no moral one. But the definition of morality escapes him, as it did when he fingered the pink cloth and knew for a fact he'd seen her in only that.

Her face stiffens and her eyes narrow but he's pretty sure he's the only one who notices the fear.

She doesn't call him on it, but the dynamic changes, and he notices the other things too.

Stacy applies herself to the case like thick foundation, scrubbed at until the skin is raw but never going away. They spend a lot of time in her office – too much time, and as he watches her through the blinds, he knows she knows he knows it's so he won't ask. Not while she's there.

But it's his friend, the sole source of his small but throbbing humanity that's the best at hiding what he's hiding. He stays clear, but not far away – equidistant from the accident as from his observant gaze. Like walking the perimeter.

He forgets, momentarily, when he's in her office and her eyes stay wide to keep dry and her fingers trail over the pearls. In the back of his head, he knows she didn't buy them for herself. But what he says is different, almost appeasing, and her smile thanks him for it.

It's a silent conversation that rages, but a calm exterior that allows him to throw in a joke, and too much pressure on his cane that permits him to collapse into his chair once he's reached his office.

Wilson comes in later with his arms folded, his smile soft but his eyes tight around the edges. He's been playing it safe and it's been driving him crazy.

There's no way she could have known. No. No way she could have.

There're too many undercurrents, too many issues cast aside for another day – they're building a small wall, steadily but efficiently, that will either erect itself as a formidable space between them, or will build on weakly legs until its own magnitude tips it over, and laughs at those who get crushed beneath.

They can run – he can't.

'House—'

'You could have just told me.'

Wilson sighs and drops his arms but says nothing. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to explain or defend himself the way he knows he'll eventually have to.

House stares out the window, focusing not on his friend's reflection, nor on his own, but on the small lights he can see, smudged by the thick lines of water.

'It's raining,' he says, and Wilson looks up. They catch eyes in the dark window and House gives a small, inclined nod. 'Go.'

He hesitates, but House has turned back to the window.

The door opens and closes without a sound.

_**ii. nothing on my tongue **_

'Hi.'

She sighs, and pulls the robe tighter about her frame.

'Hi.'

Wilson looks at her feet. 'Are you…' he fumbles the pause and meets her eyes. 'Okay?'

'I'm fine, Wilson.'

Her tone is meant to be reassuring, but barely above a whisper it's nothing less than weighted.

Wilson cracks a smile. 'Last name,' he points out. 'Trying to distance yourself?'

Cuddy's eyes shift over his shoulder briefly as she struggles to return the gesture. 'Can't slip anything past you, can I?'

The corners of his mouth go down and he shakes his head, bangs falling into his line of sight. For a moment he can't see her, and it terrifies him more than it should.

'You did your best, Lisa,' he murmurs, like holding her hand.

'Not…now.' Her voice is angular and harsh, but he knows it isn't meant to be.

'Let me in.'

'I don't think that would be a very good idea.'

'Why?'

She stares at him. 'You know why.'

He nods his head again. 'It wasn't a good idea the first time, but it didn't stop you then.'

'It should have.'

Wilson flinches and Cuddy sighs, wrapping her arms around her stomach. Though the breeze from behind him is brushing past and crawling up her legs, she knows it isn't her only source of cold.

'We keep making the same mistake.'

Wilson raises his head and regards her carefully, and in the dark light of the outside and the dull glow behind her, he notices the shadows that cross her face and accentuate the bones; the flutter of her eyelids as she wrestles with herself, whether or not to meet his gaze; the small width of her wrist attached to long, thin fingers and peach-painted nails.

He knows what those nails feel like, scraping across his back, and the desire to grab her hand and hold is almost overwhelming. But her words ring true in his ears, and he finds himself backing away (his feet stay firmly planted on her welcome mat).

'Is this about House?'

The pause is too long.

'No.'

Cuddy licks her lips and tries not to take it back. Wilson tries not to beg.

'You should… talk to him.' He doesn't look at her while he says it.

Cuddy shrugs and shakes her head. 'It wouldn't make a difference. We are what we are.'

His eyes start from the ground to her face and hold her gaze by sheer intensity. 'And us? What are we?'

She doesn't answer, and Wilson nods – 'Okay' – and backs slowly down the steps.

'James—'

Her nails brush lightly against his wrist as she pulls him into the house, and her warm hands curl around the back of his chilled neck. He doesn't object to her lips against his, tired and trembling but demanding no less of him than she's willing to give.

'Nothing's changed,' he whispers against her forehead, arms too tight but not tight enough around her back. 'It's still...'

She wishes it were right or wrong, not this tedious balance in between where when her eyes are closed and his breath is warm on her face, there's a comfort in his touch that she can't give herself; but when he's standing on her doorstep and the sky is dark behind him, it's too much like a secret waiting patiently for a slip of the tongue. Too much like waiting for the cards to fall.

In the back of her head she knows that's part of the allure—that if it didn't feel so wrong under fluorescent lights and white-washed walls, it wouldn't feel so right tucked softly between sheets, where there's no one else to see it, touch it, stain it.

What they have is real, dangerous, and treasured.

'I know,' she says, and kisses him again.

Her back hits the wall and his fingers pull at the tie of the robe, and she should be thinking about ethics and hospital politics and how they're going to feel when they both wake up (again). But none have a place in her mind as his lips slide down her neck, as his hands creep along her thighs; she shudders.

'How long will you stay?' she murmurs against his cheek. The robe slides to the floor followed by his dress shirt and the thin nightgown. He steps quickly out of his shoes and slacks, but even the brief break in contact leaves her cold.

'How long will you let me stay?' Cuddy doesn't answer, instead, grabbing his lips with hers, she pushes him gently backward until his legs hit the end of the sofa and he twists her around, dropping her onto the cushions and quickly stretching out over her. 'How long will you let me stay?' His face is buried in her neck and the pads of her fingers trail up and down his spine.

'My alarm goes off at seven thirty.' She gasps as he slides into her and weaves her fingers through his hair, trying too desperately to hold on to what she knows is real, rather than his fingers along the curve of her hips and his mouth on every part of her skin; part of her insists the more she lets go, the lonelier she'll wake up. Another part of insists that if she isn't lonely now, why fight it?

'You're not going to be able to hear it from here,' he says against her lips. Her arms tighten around his back and she shifts her face, brushing her mouth against his ear; he can feel and hear her smile.

'Exactly.'

**_iii. how to shoot straight_ **

Julie hears the car door close at eight in the morning Saturday, hears the ringing of the dog's collar as the metal bounces against itself, hears the soft whispering of her husband as he strokes the dog's head and closes the door behind him, hears his surprised gasp when he finds her sitting at the table in her pajamas, waiting.

He clears his throat but says nothing.

Julie looks at the floor, then up at him. Her eyes are red from crying too much; she knows it isn't all his fault.

'I've seen every episode of Jeopardy,' she says, and Wilson drops his head. 'You come home when I go out… I go out whenever you're home.' She pauses and her silence forces him to level his gaze.

'I'm sorry,' is all he can think to offer.

She nods once. 'You smell like lavender.'

'The nurses—' He stops when her soft gaze goes hard. His shoulders sag. 'I'm sorry.'

'Me too,' she murmurs, and pats the empty chair across from her. Wilson sighs and drops into it, trying to smile but unable. Julie reaches forward and straightens his tie. 'You're very bad at hiding it.'

'I guess I wasn't really trying to.' The words could have been harsh, could have been angry, but they're both too tired and too much at fault to accuse.

'I'm sorry for that too.'

'Julie—'

'No, James. You don't get to take all the blame yourself.'

'I could have tried a little harder.'

'Yes, you could have. And I could have been a little more lenient to your schedule. You could have come home sooner and I could have been a little more welcoming.' She sighs and leans back in her chair. 'I guess I'm not cut out to be a doctor's wife.'

She cracks a smile and a silence grows, interrupted only by the beeping of the coffee maker. Julie starts to rise but Wilson stops her. 'I'll get it.'

He pours a cup and sets it in front of her. 'You don't want any?'

His mouth twitches. 'You make terrible coffee.'

Julie's eyes widen and she stares into the cup. 'I do not make terrible,' she starts indignantly, then makes a face after a sip. 'Oh, God. That's awful.' She pushes the mug away from her and Wilson allows himself to smile.

'Don't look so smug. You can't even reheat macaroni and cheese without burning the top layer.'

'Touché.'

There's a silence, and Julie reaches for the mug again but doesn't drink.

'You can have the house if you want,' he murmurs, and looks away as he says it. Julie's gaze flickers around the room as she shakes her head.

'No. Too many memories. I'd like to keep the dog though.'

'Jackson?'

The retriever trots up at the sound of his name and nuzzles Julie's knee.

'He always liked you better anyway.'

'Dogs have good common sense.' Julie shoots him a teasing look and his heart skips a beat, remembering that glance in times when it wasn't so sad.

Julie runs her fingers through Jackson's fur, her smile slowly fading.

'Who was it?'

Wilson swallows. 'Someone from the hospital.'

'Is she pretty?'

'Julie—'

'I'm just asking, James,' she says quietly.

He sighs. 'Yeah. She's pretty.'

She hesitates. 'Do you love her?'

'No,' he says, the word thick on his throat.

'But you could.' She brushes the tears off her face. 'Good for you.'

'Don't,' he says, angry enough to make her lift her eyes. 'Don't be so understanding.'

She raises her head. 'Why not?'

'Because you were always too understanding. You always understood why I came late so often, and how much my job means to me and how many dinners I had to skip to spend the night at Greg's to make sure he didn't mix booze and pills. You always understood.' He sighs. 'You're the perfect doctor's wife.'

'I'm just not perfect for you.'

'I don't think anyone's perfect for me. I've been married three times, Julie. It can't always be my wives that screw up.'

She doesn't contradict him, just touches his knee and stands.

'James,' she says from the doorway. 'I'm going to find out who it is.'

His eyes widen slightly. 'Julie—'

'I'm sorry.' She shakes her head and disappears into the hallway; Jackson follows after her, and Wilson remains at the dining room table, and stares soundlessly into the half-drunk cup of coffee.


	2. iv, v, vi

_- disclaimer:_ see part one  
_- a/n:_ written for fanfic100 on livejournal; this chapter includes prompts taste, smell and sixth sense. Spinereader, i'm so glad you figured it out okay. i've been known to have issues with making things far to subtle, and confusion is my middle name. Lijep, yep, huzzah for the wilsoncuddyness. second favourite ship ever. :) an hallelujah is one of the most beautiful songs, in my opinion, and i thought it was rather fitting. AloneInMyMynd, here you go! (Hope it's to your liking, all. Thank you so much for the wonderful comments!)

**Well It Goes Like This**   
(parts three through six)

_**iv. the holy ghost is still**_

The kiss is hard and abrasive, and Cuddy feels her soul push against her lips. It lasts no more than seconds before she struggles away, putting distance and a cold space between them.

'What the hell was that.' Her voice isn't loud enough to decipher question from statement, and her tone is smothered by her hand on her lips, smudging away the lipstick that isn't hers.

'Funny,' is all Julie says, and licks her lip.

'What.'

'You don't taste like him.' Cuddy's arm drops to her side slowly, and it takes more will power than she'd like to admit not to look away. 'But he smells like you.'

Cuddy opens her mouth, prepared for quick wit but Julie holds up her hand. 'You don't deserve to explain.'

'I wasn't going to.'

Julie raises her eyebrows and lowers her hand. 'Oh?'

'James still cares about you. If you're even remotely interested in repairing what you had…'

'It's irreparable, Dr. Cuddy.' And Julie sighs, her eyes sinking to the floor. 'We knew that a long time ago.' She looks up suddenly. 'That doesn't make this okay.'

'It makes this the only way out.'

Julie looks away briefly, then meets her eyes, and tries to read them like a play—all action within the dialogue. All dialogue dictated by the action.

'You aren't anything like me,' she says, and Cuddy's spine uncurls. 'His previous wife… and his wife before that… I guess I'm like them. You're different.' Julie's voice drops but her gaze remains level. 'He's never liked different before.'

And she can't resist rising to the bait: 'James hates normalcy.'

And Julie simply smiles. 'Maybe you aren't so different after all.' She starts to leave —the weight of the air too thick against her skin, the taste of her lips still fresh in her mouth— but stops at the door. 'Do you really know anything about him? What foods he likes, his favourite movie? How many times he's read _The Great Gatsby_?' Julie shakes her head and Cuddy feels her legs go numb. Not because she doesn't know, but because she does. Not because Julie's making a point, but because she's making the wrong one.

'You don't see him when he comes home at two am because he's been working, because he's been out drinking; you don't see him after he's fucked another woman, and has the brass to tell you that he's sorry. You don't know him.'

Her stomach turns to acid and screams, throws a tantrum where it quivers and shakes, but out of sheer recalcitrance, Cuddy refuses to cry. The backs of her eyelids sting, but she doesn't say she's sorry.

She also doesn't tell her that she's wrong. She doesn't ask her why she never asked, why he drinks at two am and why he works so hard. She doesn't ask her if she knows that every life he's saved and every life he hasn't is burned into his memory. She doesn't ask, and Julie doesn't tell because she doesn't know.

'Be careful,' she says finally, one hand on the door.

Cuddy swallows. 'Of what?'

'James.'

'Why?'

Julie smiles again, the gesture hollow. 'He's falling in love with you. And as soon as he does, he'll break your heart.'

_**v. love is not a victory march** _

She passes him on the way to the board meeting without a word, the first sign he knows something is wrong. She doesn't make eye contact, the second clue, and when she leaves she leaves quickly, and doesn't wait for him to follow.

He tries to ambush her in her office, but she isn't there, and the whole hall smells like lavender. He almost catches her as she comes out of the clinic, but a patient calls his name and she ducks away. He tries her office again, but again she's nowhere to be found, and he can tell by the atmosphere in which it's vacant that something happened, and he can guess what.

Julie happened. He can smell her perfume, trying to drown the sent of flowers he's come to love so much.

Sighing, he drops onto the couch and waits. Not long, because her office is her sanctuary – or rather was – and eventually she has to seek refuge in the familiar.

'Oh. Dr. Wilson.'

She slips past him, eyes on the folder in front of her and retreats behind her desk.

'What happened?'

'What do you mean?'

'I know Julie was here.'

Her shoulders tense and she looks quickly away. 'Nothing. We had a nice little chat.'

'What does that mean?'

'Nothing. It's fine, Wilson.'

'You're using my last name again.'

'We're at the hospital.'

He nods slowly. The fact that he is married never seems to bother her as much as hospital politics. It's her child, her love, the one thing she'll admit to having. He can only hope she knows she has him, too.

'Cuddy,' he says slowly and she looks up. Her eyes are glossy and her smile weak. 'I knew what would happen. I'm not sorry.'

'I am,' she murmurs, and shifts quickly to cover the sound.

'Why?' She tries to skate past him but he grabs her arm. 'Why?'

'Wilson—'

'Nobody's paying any attention, Cuddy. Just answer my question.'

'It's… God… It's your marriage! It's—'

'Yeah, and it's over now.'

Cuddy looks up suddenly, the air jumping from her lungs. 'What?'

'It's not your fault, Cuddy,' he says over her, 'Oh, god.'

'It's not.' He releases her arm and presses both hands to her face. 'Nobody's blaming you.'

'Julie—'

'Julie blames me. And she blames herself. And I'm sorry if she took that out on you, and I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. But I won't be sorry it's over, and I won't be sorry for what we have.'

'What do we have?' She whispers, and pulls away, using the distance to compose herself.

'Lisa.'

'We're at the hospital,' she says, but her voice fails and he steps closer.

'So what?' he murmurs, and catches her lips. The response is instant, and she craves the familiar ground as much as he does; but as his grip tightens so do the knots in her stomach. He can taste flower petals and chap-stick; she can taste rich perfume and vanilla, and it makes her sick.

'I'm sorry.'

She tears herself from his arms and tries to wipe the taste from her lips.

'Lisa—'

'This is… this wasn't supposed to happen.'

'What? My divorce? Us?'

'Any of it! Once would have been bad enough, but—'

'Bad enough?' He tries desperately not to look wounded, but doubts he succeeds.

'Not… that's not what I meant.'

'What do you mean, Cuddy?' His emphasis on her name makes her flinch, and he wishes he could take it back. Too late.

Her voice drops. 'I didn't mean for this to happen.'

'Neither did I. But it did, and I'm telling you that it isn't as bad as you're making it out to be.'

'Then why does it hurt so much?'

The question catches him in the back and he frowns. 'This… really bothers you, doesn't it?'

'Yes. And it should bother you, too.'

'Of course it bothers me. I'm getting divorced for God's sake—again! Not exactly a list of successes. But weighing this outcome against the alternative route wherein this never happened…' he shakes his head. 'It's not a contest.'

'Do you really think that little of your wives?'

'If I ever have a good one, I'll let you know. Cuddy—' Her eyes flicker and for the first time there's a small plot of fear collapsing in his stomach and everything feels like it's sinking. 'I'm not sorry.'

They lock eyes for a moment, and he hopes she can see the truth in what he says. But she looks away, and he feels something inside break.

'I have to go. I have a…' She gestures, but shakes her head and refuses to look at him. 'I have to go.'

He reaches out again, but she's gone, and his hand grasps only the sent of lavender.

_**vi. hallelujah**_

It's a loss of words that keeps her silent, keeps her head raised high but her eyes to the floor; full sentences get caught in her throat, and everything still feels wrong.

He tries to grab her on her way out the door, but her skin is slick and her voice not loud enough for him to hang on to. He stands stoically and watches her leave, before wandering back up to his office to hide.

House finds him later, feet propped up on the desk, considering an unopened bottle. He leans his weight to the side and holds out his cane.

'If you're going to be me, at least do it right.'

One corner of his mouth goes up and Wilson drops his feet to the floor.

'If it were you, this bottle would be half empty by now.

House concedes with a tilt of his head and sits on the other side of his desk, instantly hooking his feet over the edge, cane draped across his lap. Wilson smirks again and gets two glasses out of the bottom drawer.

'Julie and I are getting divorced,' he says as he pours.

'You sound devastated.'

Wilson shrugs and hands him a glass. 'It's been a long time coming.'

'So were your first two divorces, but last time I thought you were going to fling yourself into the Hudson.'

'I'd have to go into New York to do that. I hate New York.'

House nods and takes a drink. 'So does Cuddy.'

'Julie loves it. Julie loves the Oxygen Network and cheese soirees, wine-tastings and romantic comedies. Cuddy hates parties, loves baseball and doesn't even own a television.'

'At least your taste is eclectic,' he offers, but Wilson just shifts the wine around in the glass.

'What am I doing?'

'You're wallowing.'

Wilson looks up. 'You know it wouldn't kill you to pretend to care, every once in a—'

'Pity doesn't do anybody any good,' he says sharply, and then sighs. 'If you want her, quit bitching about it and go get her.'

Wilson shakes his head. 'She left for the night.'

'Contrary to popular belief, Cuddy does have a home. A home, in fact, that is riddled with things that belong to _you_.'

'Which proves what?'

'That this was _not_ a one-time thing. And when Cuddy leaves here she actually has somewhere to go, she doesn't just fade into oblivion… although now that I think about it that would be pretty c—'

'I can't. That's not… the way it works. I'm still married.'

'You were married when you slept with her, too.'

'I didn't—'

But House just stares and Wilson drops his eyes to the red wine. He says nothing for a long while, and the room wreaks of impatience.

'Julie came by,' he says finally, his voice barely making it across the desk. 'I don't know what she said, but… something changed.'

'You let your wife talk to—'

'I didn't _let_ her; I couldn't stop her, I… I don't know what she said.'

'Maybe you should find out.'

'Maybe I should give up.'

'Maybe you should.'

Wilson looks up, and fails to mask his surprise as House heaves himself out of the chair.

'Everything you'll ever need to know you learned in kindergarten—first grade, if you were a little slow. Don't take other peoples things; don't use physical violence; if you screw up, say you're sorry; if it's your mother, even if you didn't do it say you're sorry; and if you make two play-dates for the same time, apologize profusely and then figure out which one you'd rather go to and do that.'

'We aren't in kindergarten anymore, House. It's not the same.'

'I should hope not. Banging Cuddy would be the equivalent of banging Miss Honey.'

'Miss Honey taught first grade.'

'Then I was right—you were a little slow.'

'It's not like that—'

'Yeah, it is. You're making it different by making it complicated.'

'It's already complicated! I just screwed up my third marriage, House, by having an affair with my boss who is secretly hot for my best friend who is secretly hot for her—'

'_What_?' House's jaw hung a little low, and Wilson wished he were in the right mind frame to feel smug about it.

'She… you two…'

'You think Cuddy wants to have sex with me. And you think I want to have sex with Cuddy.'

'The tension is definitely there.'

'Of course the tension is there, she's my boss.' Wilson sighs and stares at the wall, fixated on the light's reflection in the glass. House rolls his eyes. 'Oh, for God's sake, Wilson, I'm not going to steal your woman.'

Wilson looks back sharply. 'What?'

'I have much higher standards than you when it comes to the ladies. Cuddy's about three rungs below where I am.'

Wilson scoffs. 'If she offered you one night of string-free six you'd jump for it.'

'Jumping's out.' Wilson glares and House gives him a 'well, obviously' expression. 'You have _looked _at the woman, right? She's got a rack to make straight, celibate nuns shed their habits and run for the nude beaches.'

'So then you are attracted to her.'

'Physically? Of course—she's got half the hospital in the bathroom on their lunch breaks because of those low-cut blouses. Emotionally, I'd rather go to a tattoo parlor in Newark and have a three-hundred pound gang member pierce my—'

'Okay, I got it. Please, no visuals.' Wilson waves his hand in front of his face and closes his eyes, missing House's self-satisfied smirk.

'I don't want Cuddy, Wilson.' There's a moment of intense honesty that passes that Wilson acknowledges with a slight dip of his head. 'So that makes my presence here understandable. You, on the other hand, should definitely be trying to get some.'

'What?'

'Cuddy is the master of the guilt complex, and right about now I'd say she's feeling pretty damn culpable. She's going to want to make it up to you somehow.' House shrugs dramatically. 'Don't know _how_ she's gonna do that…'

'You think guilt makes women horny?'

'Have you met my ex?'

Wilson glares briefly, then settles his gaze at the bottom of his glass. House sighs, limps forward, picks a set of keys up off the desk and holds them out. 'In case you haven't heard, her long time handyman just lost his, and I think she's in the market. Sure, you're not Latino, but I've seen you salsa—not bad for a white boy from Jersey.'

Wilson sighs and stares at the keys, dangling from House's middle finger.

'Go.'

He looks up, surprised to be met with calm, honest eyes and the smallest hint of a smile.

He sits for a few more moments after House has left, enjoying the soft sounds of the hospital at night. Never too crowded, never vacant, a soothing mix of life and death he's never been able to find anywhere else.

Sighing, he heaves himself to his feet and grabs his coat off the back of the chair. He hesitates, fingering the keys in his hand, then switches off the light.

The door opens and closes without a sound.

**/fin**


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